Grotesque

by Natsuo Kirino

  My dear Mitsuru,

  I wonder if perhaps your religion—or Miss Hirata’s work in prostitution, or Miss Sat’s double life—is not an outcome of shifts in the structure and makeup of our populations. Is not this intensification of individuation—this heightened sense of awareness of self—a result of the suffocating burden of being trapped within the same social community? It is from the pain this produces that we find changes occurring in our makeup and structure. Without a doubt the experiences that unfold are cruel and bitter. Perhaps it is not possible for us to teach about these bitter experiences. More likely it is impossible for us to articulate the findings we extract from our painful experiments in life.

  As bright as you are, I am sure that even you are not able to figure out just what it is I am trying to say. Let me be more direct. When I first read about the Yuriko Hirata incident in the newspapers, I was just as shocked as I had been when I learned about your crimes. No, I was even more shocked. More than twenty years had passed since Yuriko and my son were expelled from school. I remember that Miss Hirata’s older sister (I forget her name, but you must remember her; she was in your class, a fairly drab person) came to me and asked me what she should do about her sister, who was going off with my son to engage in prostitution. At the time I said, without even thinking, “I will not tolerate this. Most likely we will expel them.”

  If I am to be perfectly frank about what I was thinking at the time, it was Yuriko, rather than my own son, whom I was disinclined to forgive. I was feeling selfish, and my behavior was utterly unbecoming to a teacher. But as ashamed as I am to admit it, I am committed to describing things just as they happened. I am not trying to write a confession. But I realize that the decision I made lacked a basis in either pedagogical wisdom or prudence, and I deeply regret it now.

  Ironically, I was the one who saw that Yuriko Hirata was admitted to the Q School system in the first place. Miss Hirata had just returned from Switzerland, and her scores on the entrance exam for transfer students were not good. Her marks in Japanese classics and mathematics were particularly low. The other instructors all felt that she did not meet our minimum requirements, but I saw that she was admitted over their objections. I had a number of reasons for doing so. First among them was the fact that Miss Hirata was so beautiful she stole my heart away. I was a junior high school teacher, but even so I was not immune to wanting to have a pretty girl around to observe. But what was foremost in my mind was the potential of conducting a biological study of what happens when a mutant member of a species is introduced into a population.

  I had dual motives in admitting her, but my plan backfired and cost me my job. I should have known better than to introduce such an abnormally beautiful creature into a population of her normal peers. To deepen the irony, it was my own son who served as Miss Hirata’s procurer, humiliating me with the filthy money he earned as a result. Now I am haunted all the more by the unsettling belief that it was my unreasonableness in admitting Miss Hirata and then seeing to her expulsion that led to her further depravity and ultimately to her death.

  When I decided to expel Miss Hirata, I called her guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, and spoke to them about it. Mrs. Johnson was furious, much more so than her husband; I remember her saying that she wanted to throw her out of their house immediately. I encouraged her to do so. I was angry with Miss Hirata. But no matter what she had done, she was still under-age and should not have been held responsible for her actions. Rather, the blame lay with the environment in which she was being raised. Even though I realized this, I was still unable to overcome my anger at the girl.

  And her elder sister as well. I heard that after Miss Hirata was expelled, far from growing more lively, the elder sister turned more and more morose. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that I was responsible for creating the discord between them. The older sister entered this school by her own hard work. Only my curiosity permitted the admission of her younger sister, Yuriko. Human beings are not subjects in biological experiments.

  The fate of Kazue Sat also weighs heavily on my mind. It is true that Miss Sat was the target of bullying while she was in Q High School for Young Women. I cannot help but conclude that the cause of this bullying was directly related somehow to the fact that Yuriko Hirata had been admitted into the school system. Because Miss Sat admired Miss Hirata and had a crush on my son, Miss Hirata’s older sister treated her terribly. News of her behavior reached me, I’m quite sure, and yet I did nothing—pretending not to be aware of any of it. For Miss Sat, life at Q High School for Young Woman—a life she had struggled long and hard to enjoy—must have been a torturous nightmare. Believing competition to be an inevitable aspect of any population of species, I stood on the sidelines and watched.

  Effort has nothing to do with the changes to structure and physiology that develop as a consequence of the intensifcation of individuation. Indeed, it is futile. That’s because changes are carried out at whim. And yet I, as a teacher—no, the educational system itself—pushed Miss Sat toward this futility. She drove herself to work hard while at the university and again at her workplace, until she finally just wore herself down. Tragically, that’s when the change to her structure finally took place, and unfortunately it was a change that depended entirely on attracting male desire. That this change was diametrically opposed to our school motto of self-sufficiency and self-confidence is a consequence of my own selfish whimsy. I am convinced of this. If I had not admitted Miss Hirata into the school, Miss Sat might have completed her high school years without suffering from bulimia.

  When population figures are low, individual life-forms learn to survive independently in isolation. When individuation intensifies, life-forms develop group survival strategies, changing in size and structure as they do. But girl students can’t help but feel that they can’t survive in isolation. The competition among them is severe. The basis for this competition is grounded in scholastic performance, personality, and financial security, but the greatest of these is physical beauty, which is determined entirely by birth. And here’s where things get very complicated. Some girls may be more beautiful than others when it comes to one aspect of their looks but will not pass muster when a different aspect is compared. The competition between them thus intensifies. I placed Yuriko Hirata into this mix: the super-beauty. I learned, after Miss Hirata and my son had been expelled, that even in the boys’ section of the school the competition she inspired was tremendous. But I continued to close my eyes. That is to say, I left things to resolve on their own. I was the one who triggered the events that have unfolded over the last twenty years. Do you understand now why I say I feel responsible?

  My dear Mitsuru,

  I do not think even a brilliant student such as yourself escaped this battle. Perhaps you managed to stay on top because of a fierce effort. You were very pretty, and your grades excelled all others. But on the dark side of that bright offense, I know you were working tirelessly, weren’t you? And the power that urged you on was born of your fear of losing, was it not? The minute you forgot this fear, that was the minute you would fail to attain your goal.

  I ignored this as well. And I call myself an educator! How I regret that I failed to offer anyone the kind of education that might have saved them from this “failure.” But it is all in the distant past. So many lives have been lost. And the years when you should have been laying a foundation for your maturity have been spent locked away in prison. How sad this makes me. I feel I should at least try to convey my sentiments to Miss Hirata’s older sister, but I regret to say that I cannot remember her name. Yes, that’s right, I can remember that even back then I was so entranced by Miss Hirata’s beauty that I was overcome with jealousy for my own son. How it shames me to admit it!

  I cut ties with my son Takashi. I do not know where he is or what he is doing or even if he is dead or alive. Strictly through rumor, I learned that after he was expelled he continued in the same line of work. He is drowning in a sweet poison (m
aking a living off exploiting women is the darkest of poisons), and I find it highly unlikely that he will ever be able to drag himself from the mire that claims him. My wife may have been in touch with him secretly for all I know. But he has not once tried to contact me. My anger was that great.

  My wife died three years ago of cancer. My younger son’s family took care of the funeral. I have no idea if Takashi knows of his mother’s death. My younger son has also cut ties with him. Although he did not understand the reason why, he had to change schools when Takashi was expelled and I was dismissed from the Q School system.

  My wife loved Takashi dearly, and she was consumed with regret over the turn our life took. She could never forgive me. But whether she liked it or not, hadn’t our son introduced his own classmate to customers and accepted the money he got from the transaction? What Takashi did was shameful and deviated from my own sense of values. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that what Takashi did led to my destruction.

  Based on an investigation the school conducted, Takashi had earned several hundred thousand yen! He took the money he earned and his license and went out and got a foreign-import car. He sneaked around behind my back, living a wild and extravagant life. He paid Miss Hirata nearly half of the money he pulled in. His behavior was despicable, no better than that of a beast. He was lining his pockets by wounding her body and spirit. My wife and I had no inkling of any of this. We all lived in the same house; how could we have not noticed? I’m sure you find it hard to accept. But when he was at home, my son kept everything secret and acted just as he always had. He lived a double life.

  Now I’ve come to the conclusion that Takashi must have harbored some kind of resentment of me, some need for revenge. I was his father, but I was also an instructor at the school he attended. And my feelings for Miss Hirata defy easy explanation. If Takashi had really shared my feelings for the girl, could he have prostituted her like that? To think of calling what he was doing a business is so cold-blooded it makes me tremble with horror. Depriving me of my love for another person and for my enjoyment of my imagination was another way he wounded me. Gradually I began to realize the grievous mistake I’d made in enrolling my sons in my own school. That is what started it all off. I am responsible, therefore, for everything that happened afterward.

  I suppose you could say that mine was a strange fate. I knew that Miss Sat had sent my son any number of letters. At the time, I told Takashi, “Reply in all sincerity.” I said this because I knew he had no interest in the girl. I have no way of knowing if he followed my advice or not. But the fact that Miss Sat developed an eating disorder leads me to wonder if perhaps Takashi was involved. There is nothing I could have done about it, but I do feel pangs of regret for having placed Takashi in the school.

  Mitsuru, dear,

  I’m nearly seventy years old, and here I am reflecting on the past, seeing how cruel youth was. It’s not unusual for young people to be overly fixated on themselves and to exclude others. But the students in the Q system were far worse than most. And it’s not just the Q system that is at fault. Surely, Japanese education as a whole should accept the blame. Earlier I wrote that all I taught students was to think and feel scientifically. But now I have something far worse to write about.

  Not only did I not teach the truth at school, I was beside myself with worry that I would end up burying a different kind of “weight” in my students’ hearts. That was brought on by the fact that I participated in encouraging their belief in an absolute value system, a system in which one sought to outdo everyone else. In a word, I am afraid I advocated a form of mind control. And that is because those students who worked as hard as they could but received no reward for their efforts have been forced to live a life burdened by this weight. Wasn’t this the way it was for Kazue Sat or even for Miss Hirata’s older sister? Both were different from the other girls, but they were no match for you, my dear, when it came to scholastic abilities.

  The weight we buried in their hearts was powerless against those who would destroy them. They lacked beauty. And no matter how hard they tried, there was nothing they could do to change that.

  Mitsuru, dear,

  In a letter that you sent to me earlier from prison you confessed to having been attracted to me. Your letter surprised and gladdened me. To be perfectly honest, while I was teaching you in high school, my heart was captivated by the beautiful Miss Hirata. She was so much more beautiful than any woman I’d ever seen before, that just to gaze upon her filled me with joy. I suppose this is what rendered me powerless in the face of the tremendous weight we all felt—the need to be better than others. Or rather, I should say, the weight became utterly meaningless. You see, natural beauty creates such excitement that the existence of the weight is negated. And once it is negated, the heavier it is to bear. Therefore, Yuriko Hirata was hated just for existing. We could not help but want to run her out of school.

  Perhaps what I’ve written is a bit exaggerated. But am I wrong? I do not know. When I spend these quiet days here in Oiwake, I remember bits and pieces about the past. If only I’d done this, that person would not be dead now, I think to myself. Or if only I’d said such-and-such, that person would not have done those things. I am overwhelmed with shame.

  Mitsuru, dearest,

  I can see the good and the bad in the actions you and your husband took. What you did was absolutely unforgivable. I say this because I believe your religious faith is another problem altogether. Religious faith in and of itself is neither good nor bad. But how could it lead you to believe it was all right to kill other people? You were such a superior student, easily a match in your own way for Miss Hirata. But you lost the power to reason. And Miss Hirata? Did she think she had no other way to survive in this world than as a prostitute, accepting any man who came along and selling herself to him? How is that possible? Was the education she received so easily overturned?

  I wrote that I want to throw myself at the feet of Kazue Sat’s family and beg their forgiveness. In the same way I would like to meet Miss Hirata’s older sister and apologize for the horrible mess my selfish whimsy created. A precious life has been lost. It’s such a tragedy.

  While I go about my study of insects, I shall remain tucked away here in my frozen mountain fastness. It is for the best, I think. But what shall I do to relieve myself of the mourning I feel for you, my dear, for Miss Hirata’s older sister, and for Miss Sat’s family? Ah, I shall never rid myself of this turmoil.

  Well, here I’ve gone and written another long and meandering letter to you, just as you have been released from prison. Please forgive me. And when you are feeling stronger, please come to Oiwake for a visit. I should like to show you my fieldwork.

  Most sincerely,

  Takakuni Kijima

  What do you think? Aren’t these letters from Professor Kijima a riot? It’s a little late to be feeling regret now, but he goes on with his tedious convictions. I really can’t make any sense of them. I’d completely forgotten that Kijima’s son’s name was Takashi. When I saw the name in his letter, I burst out laughing. Mitsuru’s husband is also named Takashi. Neither one has the kind of looks I fancy. And then Professor Kijima goes and writes that he’s completely forgotten me! “I forget her name, but you must remember her; she was in your class, a fairly drab person.” Shit! A little rude, don’t you think? And he a former teacher! What a farce! The old fart must be going senile. And now all I am is “Yuriko’s older sister.”

  Professor Kijima wrote about the intensification of the individual’s sense of self and the changes in the shape of life-forms and such, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Mitsuru and Yuriko and Kazue didn’t mutate; they simply decayed. A biology professor certainly ought to be able to recognize the signs of fermentation and decay. Isn’t he the one who taught us all about these processes in organisms? In order to induce the process of decay, water is necessary. I think that, in the case of women, men are the water.

  • 2 • />
  The next hearing was a month later. It was to begin at two o’clock, so I asked my boss if I could leave the office early that day. I was a part-timer, and the boss was none too happy about my arriving late and leaving early. But when I told him I was asking because I wanted to go to the trial, he completely changed his tune. “Fine, fine. Go on then,” he said, and waved me off. Zhang’s trial was becoming a convenient excuse for getting out of work. But I really did not look forward to attending the hearings. I did not enjoy seeing the prisoner’s gloomy face, for a start, and trying to dodge the media was getting to be annoying. Still, Mitsuru had made me promise to give Kijima’s letters back to her at the next trial, so I couldn’t very well avoid going. I’m a stickler for following through on responsibilities. And I was eager to see what kind of weird outfit Mitsuru would show up in. Curiosity on a number of fronts drew me to the courthouse.

  When I reached the courtroom early, a woman with a short haircut waved me over. She had on a yellow turtleneck sweater, a brown skirt, and a stylish scarf wrapped smartly across her shoulders. I cocked my neck to the side, pretty certain that I didn’t know anyone that well dressed.

  “It’s me! Mitsuru.”

  That’s when I saw the big front teeth and the bright eyes. What had happened to that strangely outfitted middle-aged woman?

  “You’ve changed,” I said.

  I threw my belongings roughly down on the seat behind me. When I did, I knocked Mitsuru’s purse to the floor and she bent over to pick it up, a frown on her face. Gone was the frumpy canvas bag. This was a black Gucci shoulder bag.